


to see the summer sky is poetry

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Insecurity, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jealousy, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Revenge Songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: “What's Kaer Morhen like?” Jaskier paused his low humming to ask.“Big.” Geralt said, purposefully obtuse.“Oh, you're such a brute, you know that? Give me something to work with, darling witcher!” Jaskier nudged into his leg with an elbow.“Very big.”Or: Jaskier is interested in Geralt's brothers, and Geralt isn't pleased about this revelation. He is not entirely sure why.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 75
Kudos: 791
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #003





	to see the summer sky is poetry

“What's Eskel like?”

  
Geralt looked up from his inspection of his breastplate, dirtied rag clutched in his fist. He frowned across the campfire at Jaskier. The bard was sitting cross-legged, journal open, charcoal pencil scribbling.

  
“He's a good man.” Geralt said, buffing mud out of a carefully stitched join.

  
“Well, obviously.” Jaskier huffed, “He's put up with you for his entire life. One would presume he was kind and patient, given those circumstances.”

  
Geralt hummed absently, letting the small insult go unacknowledged. “Eskel is a skilled swordsman. He's bested me in combat more than once. His knowledge of signs--”

  
“Yes, yes,” Jaskier said impatiently, “those are all terribly dull witcher observations. What is he _like_ , though? As in, what does he enjoy? What are his favourite foods? That sort of thing.”

  
Geralt's eyes flashed like pyrite, narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  
Jaskier shrugged loosely. He returned to the journal and began scratching away at the parchment again. Although he couldn't fathom an insidious motive, Geralt felt uneasy with the bard's demeanour.

  
“Just curious.” Jaskier said.

  
With no reason to believe otherwise, Geralt let the subject drop.

* * *

  
Four songs into Jaskier's set, and Geralt was bored with both the recycled material and the quality of the ale the tavern served him. They had better stuff, he could smell it, but the barmaid filled his flagon with watered-down swill. It wasn't as though he was unused to the treatment. Still, if Jaskier wasn't so busy preening, Geralt thought he'd have a better chance at a decent meal. Maybe even wine.

  
The thought made him wonder if he'd grown soft and weak under the bard's lavish care. With a curl of his upper lip, he downed half the drink. Burnt and bitter hops.

  
“Thank you!” Jaskier was calling, waving his hand at the applauding crowd. “I'd like to sing a new song, if you'd be a willing audience. This, my dear folk, is the tale of the white wolf and his brothers.”

  
As the bard strummed the first chord, Geralt's attention narrowed in precise focus upon him. He found himself tense where he sat. One massive hand clutched his tankard so tightly that the carved wood creaked in protest.

  
Was this why Jaskier had been asking about Eskel the other night? Geralt listened, annoyed by the falsehood in the tale, and doubly so when he heard little of himself in the lyrics. When the bard started listing the brave and fine qualities that he knew Eskel and Lambert both boasted, he felt a foreign stab of something dark in his gut. That was _his_ bard up there sounding as if he had a youth's crush, and—

  
Geralt washed hot with shame. _His bard?_ Since when was Jaskier property – and furthermore, his property? Confusion settled thick and heavy into the folds of his mind like sea-fog, and he pushed away from the table, hitting the door with his massive shoulder. Roach. He hadn't checked on Roach, and that wasn't fair to her.

  
He missed the pale blue confusion that traced his escape from the stage.

* * *

  
Over and over again, Jaskier's boots scuffed the dirt road as he half-walked, half-skipped beside Geralt. He was mounted, and the bard on foot, but he'd yet to hear a complaint about the situation. Highly unusual.

  
“What's Kaer Morhen like?” Jaskier paused his low humming to ask.

  
“Big.” Geralt said, purposefully obtuse.

  
“Oh, you're such a brute, you know that? Give me something to work with, darling witcher!” Jaskier nudged into his leg with an elbow.

  
“Very big.”

  
Jaskier scowled, muttering in Elder beneath his breath. “How do you put up with such a churlish lump atop your lovely back, Miss Roach?”

  
Roach grunted in warning, and made to nip at the bard. Geralt tugged the reins so she'd miss his precious doublet – he did not want to have to listen to a tale of where the silk came from and how expensive it had been – but he smirked, and patted her neck fondly.

  
“You deserve each other. Absolute savages.” Jaskier groused, folding his arms. He was keeping up with the pace Roach had set, but he was no longer gleefully bouncing on every other step. Geralt told himself he didn't care.

  
“Why these questions?” Geralt let his voice rattle low and irritated, “Do you plan to write another insipid tale about witchers you've never met? Leave off, Jaskier.”

  
Hurt smelled like sour fruit on Jaskier, all acid and sharp, and Geralt always hated it. He bit his lip, wondering why he'd spoken so harshly at all. By the time he thought about addressing it, Jaskier was no longer striding beside him. Geralt heard the plod of his footsteps as he walked some distance behind Roach, silent.

* * *

  
A week passed in the way time always passed when he travelled with Jaskier. They walked, they hunted and cooked, they made camp. Routine was something Geralt found comfort in.

  
If Jaskier was a little quieter, well. That was none of his business. Geralt quashed any culpability by telling himself that if his companion was truly upset, he'd be vocal about it. History dictated as much.

  
As they sat by the fire one evening, Geralt turning the spit upon which two wild fowl were trussed and roasting, Jaskier finally spoke up.

  
“I want to meet them.” The bard said, expression confident. “Your brothers. Then my stories will have substance.”

  
Geralt glanced at Jaskier, and dismissed the notion with a small grunt. “Perhaps someday you'll meet them on the road. The continent is only so big.”

  
“No,” Jaskier pressed, “I want you to introduce me to them.”

  
Turning the spit, Geralt glared at the fire, refusing to meet the bard's gaze again. “What for?”

  
“Well, I want to hear their stories. Get to know them.” Jaskier drew his knees up and pillowed his chin on them. “If my songs are truly as _insipid_ as you suggest, then I'd like to correct that.”

  
Immediately, Geralt regretted not making amends for his snappy remark. It'd be wise to apologise now, he knew that, but the words simmered low in his throat and refused to bubble up. He made a low noise, noncommittal, hoping Jaskier would drop the subject.

  
He didn't. “And perhaps I could walk with one of them for a time. I am sure Eskel or Lambert would have use for a barker. Actually, I've often thought—"

  
“What is it you've _often thought_ , Jaskier?” Geralt snarled, turning his head to glare at the bard. “That one of my brothers would tolerate you as I do? They would not. Lambert would think you a fool, and Eskel has better things to do than to pander to your theatrics and penchant for trouble.”

  
Jaskier blanched, and then drew his shoulders up, squaring them. “Now see here, Geralt, that's not—"

  
“Oh, it's fair, Jaskier.” Geralt cut him off again, “I've no desire for you to meet my brothers, and they would have _no desire_ for you. Do you understand me?”

  
For a long moment, they simply scowled at one another. Geralt's pointed teeth gleamed ivory in the firelight. Jaskier's eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

  
Salt and sour fruit.

  
“Indisputably.” Jaskier whispered. Then he got up from the fire and laid on his bedroll, turning away from Geralt. He clutched his lute to his chest.

  
Geralt felt a wicked sense of betrayal burn savage through his veins with every thrum of his mutant heart. They were lies, his words, all of them. He didn't _tolerate_ Jaskier; he treasured him. His brothers would delight in his cleverness. They'd be more than eager to walk the path with the bard.

  
An image of Jaskier dancing along on the balls of his feet beside Eskel flashed across his mind's eye. _His brother was laughing, as was his easy way, and the bard looked happy. They reached across the small gap between them to hold hands, and—_

  
Without saying where he was going, Geralt rose and stalked off into the forest.

* * *

  
In the morning, Geralt returned. Jaskier was gone. The scent of him lingered like a wet slap in the face, and Geralt felt an overpowering urge to go after him. Foolishly, he searched for a note, for any written word indicating the bard's intentions. Even a letter of slander and slight would suffice; Geralt knew he deserved as much, and worse.

  
But there was nothing.

  
Self-loathing snatched him up, and Geralt knelt by the burnt-out fire, glowering at the charcoal bones of last night's dinner. He didn't trust himself to follow Jaskier. No, he'd only hurt the man again, and again, because that was what Geralt _did_.

  
Jaskier was something precious and coveted and Geralt's hands were too rough and clumsy to hold him with care.

* * *

  
Spring passed into summer before Geralt came across the bard again. The day was punishingly hot. Throat aching with unslaked thirst, Geralt lead Roach into the quaint seaside hamlet, leaving her in the care of the inn’s stablehand. He didn’t bother to check if there was a room available for him. So desperate was he for a reprieve from the heat that he wholly ignored the cheering and singing coming from the tavern.

  
When he slunk inside the establishment, there stood Jaskier.

  
He wasn’t drunk – he’d say something like ‘pleasantly sozzled’ or similar nonsense – but he was certainly working on it. The crowd at his feet were clapping and tapping their feet along to his music. Geralt slid quietly into one of the few available seats and listened, barely nodding at the barmaid who set ale down for him.

  
Jaskier was singing a song about witchers. That was not surprising. This particular ballad, however, was not entirely _flattering_. In fact, Geralt would go so far as to label it vilification. He also noted, halfway through his second ale, that ‘ _meanus_ ’ was not only a fictional word, it was also a poor rhyming match for ‘ _penis_ ’.

  
When the last note was sung, the people applauded raucously. Jaskier bowed with as much grace as he could muster, considering his state. To Geralt’s left, a large man began to chortle and quieten the crowd. He was affixed with a glare – Jaskier would call it ‘scary face’ – but it seemed the fellow was immune.

  
“Oy, it’s the witcher from the song!” The drunkard cleverly deduced. “Tell us, go on, tell us, witcher. Is it true? D’you own a pair of frilly lace underthings?”

  
Geralt stared at him. The tavern had fallen quite silent. He cast his gaze around in a slow sweep, eventually settling upon Jaskier. The bard had his hip cocked, a smirk on his face, his doublet completely unbuttoned rather scandalously in the warm weather to reveal his sweat-slick shirt. _Fuck_ , but he was beautiful. Blue eyes met gold.

  
“...Yes.” Geralt muttered.

  
After a beat, the entire place exploded into action, a roar of jeering and laughter, the occupants jabbing one another with elbows. Fingers pointed, drinks sloshed, and Geralt tried to shrink in on himself. Considering his bulk, it was a rather failed venture. Everyone was delightfully amused.

  
Everyone save Jaskier, who simply gawked at Geralt with his lovely mouth slightly agape.

  
Geralt weathered the riotous storm for a minute before he downed the rest of his drink rapidly, setting coin on the table. The door yielded to the weight of his arm, and he squinted at the sunlight. If he was fast, perhaps he’d get back to the inn before the story spread and he was denied a place to rest.

  
“Geralt!” He heard the call behind him, the familiar tone of it, and stopped immediately.

  
“Jaskier.” Geralt replied, curling his body into the shadow the tavern cast. Eyes trained on his own boots.

  
“What in the seven hells was _that_ , Geralt?” Jaskier demanded, “Why would you defame yourself in such a way?”

  
The buckles on his spaulders jingled as Geralt shrugged in feigned nonchalance. “You were. Why shouldn’t I?”

  
Jaskier spluttered. “Because I was singing a fool’s ditty, Geralt! For drunks and simpletons! Nobody would have thought it terribly true, had you not just given _credence_ to it!”

  
Geralt’s eyes lifted. “You wanted your songs to be have substance. So I—I helped. I was helping.”

  
The bard shook his head, exasperated, before his boyish features melted into something less harsh. Fond, if Geralt didn’t know any better. “Oh, you ridiculous witcher.” He said, “You silly, darling thing.”

  
The sharp edge of Geralt’s teeth caught on his dry lower lip. Shuffling uncomfortably, he failed to maintain Jaskier’s forgiving gaze. Slumping against the wood behind him, he sighed.

  
“I owe you a great apology, Jaskier.” Geralt said, “It has been months, but I was cruel to you. I said things I did not mean and at the time, I don’t think I knew why.”

  
Jaskier waited for him to speak. Forever patient with Geralt’s verbal ineptitude. It spurred him on.

  
“The truth is, I—I was scared. When you started speaking of my brothers. Because they are good men, Jaskier. Better than I. Lambert, he would adore your feistiness. He’d probably provoke it. And Eskel, he’d enjoy your wit. He’s almost as clever as you are, Julek. And I think I _knew_ that and when you said, when you said you wanted to meet them and walk with them—”

  
“Oh, Geralt.”

  
“—I got so scared that you’d leave because, because I’m not _good_ with nice things. And you are a nice thing. Not—not to be kept, you are not a _thing_ , you are not shackled to me—”

  
“Geralt?”

  
“—But I wish you were, sometimes. That sounds wrong. It’s true, though. I wish I had the key that bound you and I wish I knew what to _say_ instead of hurting you and I wish, I wish that—”

  
Geralt was silenced forcibly by a pair of warm lips pressed against his own. It shocked him enough that his tirade dissolved completely. After an awkward, pursed moment, he chased Jaskier’s kiss with greedy fervour. One arm swept around the bard’s waist as he licked at the heat of his mouth, tasting wine and fruit and Jaskier, his Julek. They parted only to breathe. Geralt stared at the other man with hooded eyes, reverent.

  
“Such a silly witcher.” Jaskier whispered, looping his arms around Geralt’s neck. “How could you not know that you’ve held my key from the start?”

  
“But,” Geralt stuttered, “my brothers. Why... why speak of them, then?”

  
“Darling, I never thought I’d have a hope with you. You never gave me a _reason_ to hope. I thought that perhaps I’d find affection with someone similar to you, and be contented with that.” Jaskier stroked a loving thumb across the slant of Geralt’s jaw. “I never meant to torment you.”

  
Geralt pressed his forehead against Jaskier’s, breathing deeply of the man’s scent. “You’re _my_ bard though. Right?”

  
Jaskier chuckled. “I am. So long as you are my witcher.”

  
And suddenly, that was exactly what Geralt was, and all that he ever needed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed. x


End file.
